


sing for absolution

by fosterdeath



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fosterdeath/pseuds/fosterdeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll</p>
            </blockquote>





	sing for absolution

By the time he woke up, it was already past nine.

For most, the day had just begun, flipping through pages of ink inscribed metaphors and dropping at a moment's notice, all encompassed by an older gentleman's mordant and monotonous voice as if they were hungry for it. Their prized sanctuary was nothing more than accumulated oak and colored glass, pews worn like old leather shoes.

Nobody really noticed (or cared) that "Billy was here" or how "Jesus can suck my cock", they were all completely and utterly consumed by just sitting there, basking in the vapid stimulation to congeal their righteous thoughts.

Mothers, fathers, children born into this way of life, praying for redemption, for their God.

Maybe that was a good thing; to give yourself and your kids some restriction so they wouldn't become another face in society's corrosive youth. It showed you actually gave a shit, even if your kids grew up and learned to hate your bitter and conservative guts.

Frank couldn't remember how it felt to wake on a Sunday morning and go to Church, the place that perpetually smelled like cheap perfume and clean clothing, the kind they saved just for this very date. He never had that sort of luxury, dressed in whatever he managed to pull from underneath his bed, reeking of unwashed boy and mucked by schoolyard dirt.

His mother would take him whenever she could or wanted to, teeth a rotting mass from inside her skull but still smiling, still laughing like the cigarette wedged between her fingers, laughing at blackened, sooty, lungs. She was a thirty-something looking forty-something, built with sharp corners and knobby bones, the kind she gave to her son but more famined, as if just come off hunger-strike.

It was a contrast from the men she'd take home, blobs of lard with curdling fat and fingers made from gluttony, receding hairlines and beady little eyes. The disgusting filth who would promise a life worth living only to leave the next day, leave her to cry and pull out her parched and blanch hair.

Frank was just forced to adjust.

He stopped needing to crawl into his little sister's bed, seeking the warmth and comfort of another during all the screaming matches and enigmatic grunts he soon understood with age. And if there was one thing he missed from childhood, it was definitely going to Church.

Not the caustic fables or the vacuous explanations but, just how easy it was to have peace of mind, that someone out there was looking after you when no one else was. Maturity had a method of taking that away from you, all the ignorance and optimism.

There wasn't enough time in this world for him to head down to Saint Saviours and just sit there, not even endure the droning speech or amassing public but, just be surrounded by color and warmth.

And for a moment -- just a short, insignificant, moment, he could pretend he actually was.

The air was pungent and dense, biting at his skin and bleeding lips. He choked out a curse and brought his thumb to touch the wound, eyes weary and blurred with morning tears. His bones grated and his skull throbbed, retching out each contemptuous breath.

Before he could even register the movement, his hand flew to squeeze the mattress, lungs burning dry from the smoke of another, the girl who was glaring bullet holes and smelt like honey-dew. Frank tightened his grip, knuckles shining white.

"Why didn't you wake me?" He asked, the words thick like molasses.

Lilly shrugged, blowing cancer from the corner of her mouth and tucking back a lion's mane. Her clothes were skimpy but, her hair was plentiful, tawny and curled around her fawnlike features. She was sitting cross-legged on his desk, balancing a rollie between her index and middle fingers with Frank's shirt taut against her breasts.

She had always been a strange girl, never liked talking and when she did it was usually something rude or sarcastic. Her body was full-figured and at an average height, freckles contouring the bridge of her nose and face like a baby’s. She glanced down to see what the other was wearing, smirking slightly when he fumbled out of bed in only his boxers.

"Shit," He cursed, looking to her and then down at himself, bending in search of anything that would give modesty. "What time is it?"

Lilly bit back a grin at the sight, picking varnish off her nails and stubbing out the barely used cigarette.

"Half past nine," She simpered, hearing her brother groan and struggle on a pair of blue jeans.

The ride to work was never some treacherous journey. Twenty by foot, ten with a set of wheels. Frank knew he could get there fairly quick, as he always did, but surely not on the clock. Dun would grill him over the simplest, most genuine, mistake like it was some sort of unspoken rule, and Frank knew this would be no exception.

Pete, a bartender who had been there for well over thirty years, always went on tangents about life before the staid Joshua Dun and his widely-recognized crumbling marriage. It was a lively, family-owned, business ever since prohibition, owned in secrecy until the ban finally lifted.

He was just a kid the first time he went to Dun's. Bright eyed with caramel skin and looking for someone to buy him a drink. No one ever had though, just laugh in drunken hiccups and swallow their own sick.

Later, in his more nostalgic moments, Pete would remark how he was glad they never did. That way, his younger self could actually explore, an adventure that brought paroxysm and a perpetual thrumming to his heart.

He started work at age thirteen in 1932 as a busboy.

The place always came alive at night, and sometimes, there would even be a glimpse of Richard Dun and everything he strived for. Though the place had changed tremendously, Pete still believed his late-boss was with them in spirit.

"I still have to work, y'know." Frank said absently, pulling on a white shirt that was dirty at the hem. "Whether you get me fired or not."

Lilly’s expression went blank as if it were habitual, insipid and detached like the girl herself. Frank couldn’t think of a time when she hadn’t looked this way.

"You don't have to," She spoke, tapping on ash and burnt wood. “You don’t have to work, you can just go back to school and—“

"This isn't a choice, if it was I wouldn't be doing this." He argued, the words spewing hysterically. "That place wouldn't get me shit anyways. It's not what I want."

"And this is?" She interrogated, irritatingly calm. "You want to wash dishes for the rest of your life?

Frank stood, rummaging around in one of the empty drawers that was partly filled with rusted bolts and flannel clothing, clinking and rolling. He took a denim jacket and pulled it on.

"I get what you're trying to do and all but, I need to work. I need this job and I need to support us." He explained, retreating to the door. "I've gotta go. I'll see you later."

It closed.

________________________________________

His house was never a place of integrity or great wealth, and if it had been, Frank was too young to have ever noticed. The halls were carpeted by synthetic wool the color of asphalt and opalescent marks from a parent's failure. Sometimes he'd sit for hours out here, sloshing liquor between his teeth as if it were mouthwash.

The Johns would come and go like flaky tenants in a seedy apartment complex, such unremarkable people who could only suit such an unremarkable name. It was just the kind of men his mother attracted.

Frank seemed to get that from her.

Well, the people in his life weren't all bad, or at least not to the extent of Joshua Dun. He had Pete, and Beckett, who were Class A assholes from time to time but, still had this endearing quality, like you couldn't even fathom holding a grudge or getting the slightest bit angry.

Beckett was just a kid, caught in that confusing stage of adolescence where he was bound to fuck up and make a fool of himself. It was silly to chastise him for something he couldn't help.

He'd been the one to shell out money so Frank could buy his only means of transportation and cover his ass when he broke Dun's new set of imported shot glasses. Beckett was still a decent guy, despite the occasional mishaps and perpetual annoyance.

They'd been coworkers ever since '74, sharing fags in between breaks and meeting on the corner of Plymouth. Then, inexplicably, he stopped showing up.

It took Frank about a week or so before caving in and asking Pete, who gave some vague response about Beckett not having a filter and brushed it off with a wave of his hand.

Looking back, it was probably the combination of Dun being a hard-ass and Beckett's rowdy nature that sealed the deal on his job's demise. Frank couldn’t say he didn’t expect it.

"You're late." Pete deadpanned, those being the first words Frank heard once walking through the jingling doorway. 

“Yeah, I know.” He spat, hair in his eyes and clothes damp to the touch. He looked like a mess, more so than usual.

Pete didn’t feel like pressing any further, throwing a rag over his shoulder and chiming in a, “Hey, don’t put that there.” when Frank tried leaving his skateboard on the floor. The teenager scowled in response, leaning it against one of the booths and muttering sarcasm under his breath. Pete scoffed.

“You’re just lucky Dun isn’t here yet. He’d put you through the ringer.”

“Damned if I give a fuck,” Frank snorted, tossing his jacket on one of the stools.

They both knew it was a lie.

The difference between Frank and Pete—besides their overwhelming age gap—was that Pete actually had a sense of security in his work, unlike the teenager who could've been fired in a heartbeat. While hiring a bartender who had the history and skill Pete did was impossible, Dun could've found any kid looking for some extra cash to replace Frank.

He was just a busboy. A replaceable, puerile, busboy.

"So," Pete began, folding his fingers from behind the bar. "I'm thinkin' of getting some new ink."

Frank hummed in response, removing the chairs from each table as he always did. They fell to the floor with a strident  _clack_  that only each other would hear.

“Mm, what of?”

“Not sure yet,” Pete spoke indecisively. “Probably something for my father.”

Pete's dad had passed away a few months ago from an illness doctors couldn't diagnose. Frank knew this from the break he took during March, which held one of their busiest holidays. Irish or not, many took it as a chance to drink themselves into liver failure, which meant more pay and more tips.

"Where are you getting it?" He asked, examining the lines all over Pete's skin.

“Wherever I have room left,” The man answered, so unspecific and flippant with his reply. He seemed to realize this, tacking on, “It’ll be a part of my chest piece.” for lack of something better.

Frank nodded, pushing in the screeching woodwork with such little concern he knew it was probably offending Pete and his precious domicile. Dun's wasn't some high-end pub with passionate employees and expensive furniture the color of Maraschino cherries, it didn’t matter if he scraped the tables or chairs because they were already damaged.

Frank would've been as pretentious as to say they were scarred by time rather than all of Brooklyn's intoxicated. It made him wonder at times, picking at the fiberboard rather than his own stubby nails.

Were Jack and Katie still together? Were they still carving their heart-lipped names into old bar counters? What about Evan? Was he still using his car-key-scrawl to cuss strangers out?

Of course, Frank would never know, and he knew he’d never know. That much was obvious.

“So, how’s your sister been?” Pete drawled, attempting to keep the conversation alive with meaningless small talk.

Lilly had never really liked Pete. And Pete was just trying his best to be friends with everyone. They saw each other sporadically and without any intention. He’d try to win her over with a few vulgar jokes and free gin but, she’d only grimace in return.

Lilly just instilled fear into the hearts of men, and Pete Wentz was no exception.

“Fine, I guess.” Frank mumbled, the response overwhelmingly dubious.

“What about Jamia?”

Frank rolled his eyes at the question, wiping down Dun's vaguely beer-smelling seats with household cleaner, this sharp, more chemical driven, aroma.

Pete was always an asshole when it came to the women in Frank’s life—with the exception of Lilly, who would’ve put his head on a stick—out of either internalized misogyny or just so he could rile everyone up. He knew what buttons to push and the reaction it would get him like nobody’s business.

“Oh, fuck off.” The teenager snapped.

“Seems like I’ve...hit a nerve." Pete snickered, dodging the towel that was being thrown his way. It hit his palm instead, curling around his middle finger and hanging down his wrist. He chucked it back at the boy halfheartedly, missing by a few feet.

“You did,” Frank agreed exasperatedly. "Now can you please let me work?”

"Whatever, Frank." Pete jested in mock surrender.

The teenager kept his eyes focused elsewhere, flipping Pete the bird as he grabbed a broom from the dining area and started to sweep. He could hear the other scoff and then his footsteps fading away, pacing off into the backrooms.

Frank let out a sigh of relief.

It was going to be a long day.

________________________________________


End file.
